


wolfsong, larksong

by Iris_Duncan_72



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Panic Attacks, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soul Companions, a cross between spirit animals and daemons, cliche animals fuckin fight me, obligatory post ep 6 apology TM, oh and, was considering snakes but do you know how big a goddamn python is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Duncan_72/pseuds/Iris_Duncan_72
Summary: Soul companions appear in a time of great need.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 95
Kudos: 1428
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry





	1. Chapter 1

Julian Pankratz is seventeen when he’s kicked out of home with little more to his name than an old lute strapped to his back and a pocketful of coin he’d been saving under his bed. His father’s cruel words ring in his ears and his mother’s cold expression swims before his eyes as he stumbles down the street, breath short, vision blurring, going anywhere but here.

It’s only mid-afternoon and the city is yet busy, the streets crowded, and Julian’s lungs feel like they’re collapsing or possibly full of water. His heart pounds and his chest begins to burn with a lack of air, so he turns blindly down an alley, keeps going until the hustle and bustle dies down, until he can collapse against a wall and curl into a ball. One hand flutters to his throat as he tries to breathe slower, deeper, but pain and grief tangle beneath his skin, dragging vicious thorns through his fragile veins, and Julian’s head spins as he pants. He shuts his eyes, drops his head to his knees, thinks of how satisfied his father would be if he knew what a _mess_ his words had turned his useless son into and the thought _burns_ , making Julian recoil, nails digging into his knees as a thin wheeze passes his lips –

_Soft._

_Warm._

_Strong._

Head jerking up in shock, Julian stares at the huge white wolf looming over him, pressing insistently against his shins. Amber eyes shine like melted gold leavened with summer sunshine and the wolf whuffs, nosing Julian’s cheek wetly. Julian splutters weakly, lungs still struggling to draw in enough air, and the wolf whines anxiously, dragging a rough tongue over his chin. His hands tremble as he lifts them to stroke through thick fur, anchoring himself as the wolf presses closer, rumbling quietly. Julian’s eyes drift shut once more and he focuses on the steady, reassuring presence of the magnificent animal who has come to him in a time of desperate need. The wolf is infinitely patient, staying in place and keeping Julian safe while he calms himself, remembering how to breathe again.

Julian’s cheeks are wet with more than saliva when at last the ground solidifies beneath him, when the world no longer feels like its caving in over his head. The wolf shifts, turning its large head to make searing eye contact with him, and Julian pets it reverently.

‘Thank you,’ he whispers scratchily.

The wolf licks him again with a whuff and Julian _feels_ the waves of comfort rolling off the animal to him.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Julian mumbles, a little stunned that _this_ is his soul companion. ‘Absolutely _beautiful_.’

He kisses the bridge of the wolf’s snout, right between its eyes. A fluffy white tail wags in response and the weight in Julian’s chest lightens slightly. He’s no longer scared that he won’t be able to do this, won’t be able to survive on his own, because he _isn’t_ alone. Not anymore. Never again.

 _I can do this,_ he tells himself firmly. We _can do this._

(Hundreds of miles away and three years earlier, Geralt of Rivia kills a werewolf, but not before the maddened beast slaughters three children and their mother. The villagers give him the coin he is owed with barely restrained hatred and fury, blaming him for the deaths, cursing him for not being strong enough or fast enough or clever enough. Never enough, either too human or too monstrous, the curse of a witcher, but never, _ever_ enough.

He and Roach leave the village immediately, never mind that dusk is already creeping over the world and Geralt’s half-covered in blood. Most of it is the werewolf’s, some of it is his, but the pain of whatever injuries he has doesn’t pierce the leaden veil of self-loathing, bitterness, and grief wrapped around him. The stench of monster guts makes Roach antsy and Geralt leads her rather than take the time to settle her so he can ride. The urge to get away, far away from the site of his failure, is sharp in his belly and so they walk until night has fallen properly. They stop under the shelter of a copse of fir trees and Geralt tends to Roach before sitting on the hard ground, a tree at his back, and meditating.

There are slashes on his arm, he can feel the dull sting of them now, but he doesn’t clean and bind them, doesn’t do anything for himself. Not this night.

It is only when dawn comes, grey and quiet, that Geralt rises stiffly from his position and belatedly begins the process of cleaning himself up. A shallow brook runs through the trees and he uses the cold water to scrub dry, flaking blood off his skin and armour and out of his hair. His stomach grumbles, mutinous, and he placates it with bread just this side of edible and strips of beef jerky. Sunlight filters through the shaggy branches as he cleans and sharpens his swords with methodical precision, the world coming awake around him.

Perhaps that is why it takes Geralt a couple of minutes to notice the little bird that flutters down from the trees into the poor excuse for a campsite.

The tiny ball of dusty brown feathers and eyes like polished black marbles hops around, poking its beak into the saddlebags and chirping. Geralt ignores it, fully expecting the bird to leave as soon as it realises that it’s in the den of a predator, as soon as its survival instincts scream to life. Instead, the bird comes closer, fearless and singing boldly. Geralt continues to focus on the almost meditative motions of dragging the whetstone down the length of his silver sword.

Apparently fed up with being ignored, the bird alights on Geralt’s knee, its weight nigh on imperceptible. Bemused, he turns his gaze to it and is duly startled to find the little thing ( _nightingale_ , his brain offers up) staring back at him.

That first second of eye contact is all it takes for –

_Gentle._

_Warm._

_Forgiving._

_Protective._

The feelings wash over Geralt like relentless ocean waves one after the other and he reels, almost dropping his sword as his breath stutters. The nightingale chirps and bounces on his knee, fluttering small wings.

‘You...’ He trails off, unable to voice the truth that lies before him, unable to let go of his disbelief that he, _he_ of all people, might possibly have a –

Geralt sets the sword across his thighs, dropping the whetstone beside him. His hands look far too big and bulky and dangerous to be near such a small, fragile creature, but the bird doesn’t hesitate for even a moment when he tilts his palm towards it, when he lifts it closer to him. It trills happily, nestling down in his hand and fluffing up its feathers, inviting a careful stroke over its head.

A soul companion.

Geralt has a soul companion.

Black marble eyes watch him intensely and it’s ridiculous how much loves seems to be pouring out of the bird. Its body is tiny, surely too small to contain such an immense amount of emotion? But it doesn’t stop, just sits there pleased as punch, chirruping softly, as though it’s not in the hand of a witcher who could crush it without any difficulty at all.

It’s a while before Geralt can bring himself to believe that he’s not hallucinating or under an enchantment. Even then, he refuses to let the bird out of his sight, so he places it back on his knee and goes back to sharpening his blade, pausing every so often to stroke the nightingale. It’s an inquisitive little thing, hopping about and singing sweetly, but it stays close, never out of arm’s reach.

And the awful, horrible, terrible knot in Geralt’s chest begins to unravel.)

Julian, who is now Jaskier, finds Geralt the better part of a decade later, though thanks to his elven blood he barely passes as twenty. He’s a bard, a dashing minstrel wandering from city to town and town to village and back again. The first several years were rough, but things have been improving at quite a rate lately. While in part this is due to the fact that he’s good at singing, good at storytelling, good with the lute, Jaskier knows that it’s just as much due to Alfa. A handsome young bard with a sparkling smile and cheerful songs at his fingertips is one thing, but a bard _and_ a honey-eyed white wolf? Well, that’s certainly not something most folks see every day.

He thinks of it like this – Alfa attracts the listeners and Jaskier keeps them there. Together, they make an excellent team (as if they would be anything _else_ ) and there’s many a time when he can do naught but offer praise to Melitele for this rather splendid turn of events in his life, especially given the decidedly less wonderful earlier years.

They’re in a small tavern in an out-of-the-way village, Jaskier prancing around the room as he sings and plays, Alfa curled up for a nap in the centre of the room by one of the support beams.

 _Lazy bugger,_ Jaskier thinks fondly, unfaltering in his song.

He hasn’t been singing long today and he doesn’t think he’ll be going much longer either, what with how unimpressed his audience is looking. Indeed, it takes only a little longer for the patrons to lose patience with him and start grumbling and booing, a few throwing stale bread and other pieces of food at him.

‘Alright, alright, calm down!’ Jaskier protests, ducking an entire loaf that sails overhead.

Of course, the disturbance has roused Alfa, who opens one gold eye to take in the situation and growls, low and threatening. _That_ gets the hecklers to stop, shooting looks at the wolf that range from wary to alarmed. Alfa makes no moves of aggression, though, just lifting her head and watching the room, watching the bard who hurries to scoop up as much bread as he can reasonably stuff into his trousers. After all, they’re unlikely to get paid anything else here, are they?

As he trots over to his wolf, who heaves herself up onto to her paws in preparation for departure, Jaskier notes the hulking man who sits alone in the corner of the tavern. He hasn’t moved a jot all throughout Jaskier’s performance, not even to join in the booing. Crouching under guise of thoroughly petting Alfa’s head, Jaskier takes a closer look at the man and his interest is piqued by long silver-white hair, a gleaming medallion, and dual swords crossed over his back.

He glances down at Alfa, lips twitching up in a smile at the impressively readable look of exasperation on the wolf’s face. Alfa whuffs, clearly resigned to the bard’s intentions, and Jaskier smacks a quick kiss on her snowy snout before straightening up and wandering over to the witcher’s corner.

‘Hello there,’ he says cheerfully, leaning against the beam closest to the table.

‘I’m here to drink alone,’ the witcher mutters, not looking up from his flagon of the crap that’s passing as ale.

Completely ignoring the man’s rebuff, Jaskier slides into a seat opposite him. ‘I know who you are,’ he declares proudly. ‘You’re Geralt of Rivia.’

Geralt grunts low in his throat, the sound an irritated one, and lifts his gaze, no doubt about to try and shoo Jaskier away more forcefully –

Jaskier’s mouth is dry as dust and he freezes like a rabbit caught out in the open.

Honey-gold eyes stare at him, eyes that he’d would recognise anywhere because he sees them every time he looks at Alfa.

 _‘Oh,’_ Jaskier breathes, and a soul-deep shudder ripples through him.

There’s movement on Geralt’s shoulder, under his mane of pale hair, and suddenly a little brown bird, a nightingale pops out and lands on the table. It shrieks excitedly, bouncing across the table towards Jaskier, flapping its wings and blinking marble-black eyes. He can’t help but notice, very distantly, that the bird’s feathers are the same colour as his hair.

‘Sweetheart, what –’ Geralt’s gruff voice breaks off as Alfa huffs loudly at Jaskier’s side, drawing the witcher’s attention and turning him to stone between one moment and the next.

They all sit there silently for an interminable few seconds, rigid with shock, gold eyes staring into gold, blue eyes staring into black.

Then Jaskier reaches out with a slow, tentative hand towards the nightingale and feels Geralt’s gaze snap back to him, not hostile, only wary. The bird trills, an oddly triumphant sound, and hops onto his thumb, claws pricking lightly against his skin. She (he knows she’s a she, he _knows_ this in his bones) preens as Jaskier blatantly gawps at her, then spreads her wings and flies down to the ground so Alfa can sniff her with as much care as Jaskier had used. The wolf’s ears are pricked and her tail is wagging slightly and when she looks up, her gold eyes turn first to Jaskier _(joy, content, warm, happy)_ and then to Geralt. The witcher has an expression like someone just slapped him with a dead fish, but he gives into the silent demand and runs his hand over Alfa’s head, gently thumbing one of her ears.

Jaskier clears his throat and fists his hand in the thick fur on Alfa’s back, grounding himself before his head spins right off his shoulders. ‘Her name’s Alfa,’ he offers quietly, hopefully.

Gold eyes that mirror the ones Jaskier has seen every day for years meet his gaze with ferocious intensity. Geralt bows his head a fraction, unblinking, and the nightingale flutters back up onto the table, hopping between the two of them.

‘She’s... Sweetheart,’ he says, a touch pained, probably embarrassed.

Jaskier can no more hold back the broad, genuine smile unfurling across his face than he can slow his racing heart or swallow the moon. ‘I’m sure she is,’ he teases lightly.

Geralt blinks at him, his expression giving little away though his eyes remain bright and wide and fixed on Jaskier. His jaw works for a moment, like he’s chewing on something particularly tough, and then he forces out, ‘Where do you go, bard?’

‘Well, now, that depends.’

A faint furrow forms between thick white brows. ‘On?’

Jaskier all but twinkles as he replies, ‘On where your next job is, witcher.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might add a part 2? with smooches? if anyone's interested?
> 
> OH and while you're here there's a geraskier fic i've lost. i think it's a post ep 6 fix-it, all i remember is geralt coming into a tavern out of the wintry cold and jas playing the song of the white wolf while a lady dances in hobnail boots. im going slightly batty trying to find it so if you know it, pls send it my way <3
> 
> EDIT: the story has been found!!!! Gods bless


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is indisputably wanting, but he refuses to be weak anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: you're not gonna do another post ep 6 apology fic.
> 
> also me:

Days stretch into weeks and months and years. Geralt more often than not spends his winters tucked away in Kaer Morhen, while Jaskier houses in himself in this court or that mansion, waiting for the snows to retreat. When the seasons turn, the bard and his wolf venture out into the world again, following the roads until they inevitably run into their favourite witcher and nightingale duo.

Monsters spring up here and there and Jaskier gets hurt more often than Geralt would like, but Geralt gets hurt a _lot_ more often than _Jaskier_ would like, so really, the witcher is in no position to be growling when he finishes a hunt and finds the bard bleeding out. This is the point where Geralt bluntly points out that he’s far more capable of surviving an errant kikimora swipe than a fragile human and Jaskier just squints at him because how has he not noticed the elf blood? Really, _how??_ But he has more pressing counterarguments to make, such as _it was about to stab you in the back, what was I meant to do, let it sever your spine?_ And on it goes.

The whole soulmate-soul companion thing doesn’t get talked about much, but Jaskier isn’t concerned. He quickly learns that Geralt’s mildly allergic to talking and _severely_ allergic to talking about feelings, which doesn’t mean he doesn’t communicate just as effectively in other ways. Jaskier muses that he shouldn’t be surprised that someone as practical and survival-oriented as a witcher speaks more through actions than anything else. Geralt allows Jaskier to tag along on his adventures, sometimes even permits him to spectate on hunts, and he seemingly unconsciously takes care of the bard in a hundred other little ways – making sure he has the warmer blankets when they camp out, providing wild game for them both, stopping by villages and towns when Jaskier’s griping about the lack of hot water in the wilderness reaches new heights, buying medicine on the rare occasion Jaskier comes down with some sickness or other.

It’s not like the soulmate bond is necessarily a romantic one, anyway, just as often one of platonic love and trust, and if Jaskier can have even that from his witcher, well, he’ll be a happy man. He _is_ a happy man. Of course, that does nothing to stop his weak heart from jumping ship within the first year of their companionship. Fortunately, while Alfa and Sweetheart are both observant creatures and pick this development up almost _immediately_ , Geralt remains utterly oblivious. Jaskier doesn’t mind that either because even a blind man could tell that Geralt trusts him, and there’s no gift more precious that the witcher could ever present him with.

Then the business with the djinn happens and Geralt’s a complete _arsehole_ , but that immutable fact is swiftly overshadowed by the fact that Jaskier can’t fucking _breathe_. As he collapses, the witcher’s alarmed voice ringing out, Jaskier sees Sweetheart drop out of the air, stirring weakly on the ground while Alfa desperately nudges her small, feathered body.

Everything’s a mess of blood and pain and _not breathing_ after that, but though panic has him tight in its jaws, Jaskier isn’t as scared as he could be, isn’t cold with bone-deep fear. With Geralt’s strong hands holding him firm and secure as they hunt down this dangerous sorcerer, how can he be? Things get a bit fuzzy after that for a while and then Jaskier’s scrambling out of an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room while a terrifying, beautiful woman (terrifyingly beautiful? Beautifully terrifying?) with flashing violet eyes and a knife nearly castrates him, while a tiger owl screeches overhead and sends Sweetheart diving into Jaskier’s bloodied collar for safety. This is followed by a nightmarish djinn possession attempt and Geralt simultaneously being very sweet –

‘She saved your life, Jaskier, I can’t let her die.’

– and very stupid. Still, even when half the manor collapses, Jaskier knows Geralt, at least, hasn’t kicked the bucket yet, Alfa pacing back and forth around him, growling softly. A quick glance through a broken window reveals that the witch is also very much still alive and that’s that, really – Jaskier and Geralt and Alfa and Sweetheart go from being a pair to a sometimes-pair and a sometimes-pair-but-with-Yennefer-and-Serafin-instead-of-Jaskier-and-Alfa.

That’s a little harder to stomach (partly because Yennefer is still terrifying and partly because she’s a _bitch_ ), but when his chest aches for watching the way the witcher and witch look at one another, Jaskier just buries his face in Alfa’s fur and hugs her tight. She gets antsy whenever Yennefer’s around, no doubt as a result of being part of Geralt’s soul, but she never shrugs Jaskier off in favour of the witch, never nips him even when he’s deliberately antagonising Yennefer or moping petulantly. For that, he loves her all the more.

_At least_ one _white wolf around here knows who their soulmate is,_ Jaskier thinks childishly, glaring daggers at Yennefer where she stands with Geralt several paces away after just _happening_ to run into them in this random village in the middle of Absolutely Nowhere.

Alfa leans against his thigh in comfort and Jaskier sighs. This whole one-sided love thing is proving a touch more painful than expected. But for all her faults (and they are many, Jaskier is compiling a list, staring with the fact that she’s a power-hungry nutcase), Yennefer makes Geralt smile just by being around him, while Jaskier is lucky if he sees one of those famous witcher smiles in a month of blue moons. The bard is not so petty, not so small-hearted that he would begrudge Geralt this happiness. Gods know the man hasn’t had anywhere near enough of it in his long life.

(Jaskier just wishes _he_ could be the one making Geralt’s eyes glow with molten warmth.)

Eventually, everything goes to shit because of course they do. Jaskier has been a magnet for trouble his entire life and with Yennefer now joining the mix, it’s hardly surprising when things take a turn for the awful. Heart-shatteringly painful, yes, but surprising? No.

The first sign that the gods have abandoned Jaskier is when he oversleeps and completely misses all the exciting stuff with the dragon on the mountain.

The second sign is how upset Alfa gets after Yennefer storms away from Geralt, her expression cold and _hurting_ , Serafin a silent sentinel on her shoulder. Alfa only ever gets snappy at Jaskier when he’s doing something stupid or dangerous (usually mutually inclusive), never as a result of _Geralt_ being in a bad mood. Today, now, that no longer seems to be the case, Alfa’s lips curled back in the beginning of a snarl, her eyes hard and the wrong side of feral, like she’s a wild wolf unused to the touch of man.

Jaskier feels a chill in his heart and Sweetheart twitters anxiously, flitting about between them all. He perseveres though, speaking lightly in an effort to defuse the thundercloud of tension that’s descended over his witcher, but –

But –

_But –_

Geralt turns on him, face livid with anger, gold gone flat with fury, and he _bites_ and Jaskier has composed many songs about the witcher over the past two decades, but they’ve been gentling, burnishing Geralt’s reputation in the eyes of the Continent.

He’s never truly appreciated how _sharp_ the White Wolf’s fangs are until –

_‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ you _off my hands!’_

The thing is, Jaskier knows Geralt’s in pain, knows he’s lashing out because he’s upset and has no idea how else to deal with his emotions, Jaskier _knows this –_

But in an instant, he is thrown back to his youth, when he was young and afraid and lost and filled with so much pain that he couldn’t breathe, not until a white wolf came and rescued him. He remembers how his mother had said nothing in his defence, her expression icy and closed as her husband raged and ranted at Jaskier, letting him know in no uncertainty that he was _useless_ and a _disappointment_ and _pathetic_ –

Jaskier hasn’t experienced true heartbreak since that day and now it is his beloved White Wolf ripping into his flesh, spilling his heart’s blood and cutting him where he is weakest.

A tiny whisper of noise crawls up his throat and Jaskier swallows it back, humiliation adding salt to the catastrophic injury. Numbness follows swiftly on its heels, prompting Jaskier away, away, away before the walls fall and he shatters into so many pieces he will never, ever be whole again. He walks with no direction in mind, walks until the mountain peak is behind him, heads straight off the path and deep into the forest to hide his shame, to hide _himself_ because his soulmate has utterly, ruthlessly rejected him and he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, doesn’t know what it can mean except that his father was _right_.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut against the agony of this thought and, naturally, trips over something a second later, tumbling down the slope until he crashes into a tree with enough force that the air is knocked clean from his lungs. He ignores this, ignores how he gasps desperately for breath, ignores the sharp pains in his body from the fall.

After all, none of it matters, not anymore.

_He_ doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Not ever again.

How can he, when, after everything he was given, he is alone once more? No soulmate, no soul companion.

Just Jaskier and his stupid broken heart, lying useless and ruined in a forest, the shadows growing long and thick around him as he sobs with exhausting, dizzying force.

Alone.

Unwanted.

Wreck–

Soft fur, rough tongue. Shrill whining.

Gentle, callused hands. Rumbling words.

_Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier,_ a familiar voice murmurs, but he shies away from it, curling up smaller to protect the still-bleeding fragments of his heart.

Cold wetness nudging his cheek, warm breath panting over his face.

A firm grip lifting him, rearranging him oh so carefully. A slow, steady beat pressed against his ear.

_Breathe, come on, breathe for me_ , the voice orders, and he adjusts himself to that rhythmic beat instinctively, mirroring it until he no longer burns all over, only aches dully.

Jaskier forces his eyes open, only to snap them shut a second later as he sees gold eyes staring at him, no longer wild and jagged. It takes him another moment to realise whose hold he lies in and then his body goes stiff as a board.

‘Jaskier –’

The bard shoves his way forcefully out of the strong embrace, landing on the forest floor on his hands and knees. He scrambles away, out of reach, before whipping back around, tucked into a crouch like a small animal ready to flee for its life.

Geralt sits motionless a few feet away, his eyes shining in the evening gloom, Alfa just beyond him. There’s an expression on the witcher’s face that Jaskier can’t quite decipher, those plush lips twisted uncomfortably. A hand twitches fractionally towards him and Jaskier cannot stop himself from flinching backwards violently, his pulse already rocketing skyward again, fluttering in his throat –

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt rasps, solemn as the grave, and the bard sucks in a shaky breath.

‘What do you want?’ His voice is thin and reedy, trembling like a leaf, and he hates it, but the words trip off his tongue without cease. ‘Why did you come for me? I was leaving, I _am_ leaving, I’m – I’m giving you what you want.’

Thick white brows draw close together in consternation. ‘You... weren’t breathing. You were on the verge of passing out.’

Geralt’s cautious, measured tone lights a fire in Jaskier’s blood, steeling his spine. ‘Why do you _care?’_ he snaps hoarsely, hands clenched into bloodless fists. ‘I’d’ve been fine. I _will_ be fine, so you can fuck off, thanks very much.’

He’d run from this conversation if he could, from the added pain it heaps on him, but Jaskier’s not entirely sure his legs would support him and besides, running from the two wolves staring him down seems like an eminently _stupid_ thing to do.

‘Jaskier.’

He wants to tell Geralt to shut up, to stop using his name, he doesn’t have the right anymore, but there’s something broken in the witcher’s voice and Jaskier can’t push past it fast enough.

‘I’m – sorry. I was cruel. Unforgivably cruel.’ Moving slowly so as not to spook the bard again, Geralt shifts onto his knees, hands on his thighs, the line of his jaw sharp as one of his blades. ‘I was – angry,’ he grinds out, swallowing convulsively. ‘I should not have taken it out on you. I did not. Mean it. Forgive me.’

And then he bows his head deeply, pale hair falling loosely around his face.

Jaskier – wants to scream. He can’t breathe enough to do so, though, so he settles for hissing as vehemently as possible, ‘No, you don’t get to do this. I won’t _let you._ ’ His hands are shaking, anger licking through him like fire. ‘I’m not your – not your _whipping boy._ I _trusted you_ and you – you – fuck.’ The little laugh that slips past his lips sounds entirely too much like a sob. ‘I know you were angry, but that doesn’t give you the _right_ to _break my fucking heart.’_

_To make me feel worthless and hurt me as those I once called my family did._

Geralt lifts his head enough to meet Jaskier’s wide-eyed stare and yes, Jaskier understands the witcher well enough to recognise pain and regret in him, even without Alfa whimpering low and pleading in the background. There’s a whisper of touch on the bard’s shoulder and he knows without looking that Sweetheart has reached him, the feather-clad piece of his soul retreating to him, and Jaskier _sees_ the realisation cross Geralt’s expression. Sees him understand that he has driven away his soul companion, that neither she nor Jaskier trust him enough to come any closer.

‘I’m sorry,’ Geralt repeats, soft and hopeless. ‘I never wanted to – hurt you.’

‘And yet,’ Jaskier whispers, fresh tears welling in his eyes, though he blinks them back hurriedly, ‘here we are.’

Jaskier returns to Oxenfurt. His heart is a ruin of sharp splinters and raw edges in his chest and he hasn’t the breathing room to work on mending it in Geralt’s company. So he and Sweetheart part ways with the witcher almost as soon as they’re down from the mountain (Jaskier misses Alfa horribly, misses his wolf every second of every day, but he doesn’t trust her, sees only fierce gold eyes and gleaming fangs when he looks at her – and Sweetheart won’t go anywhere _near_ the wolf now).

Geralt is as quiet as ever, accepting Jaskier’s decision without argument. His only question is –

‘When can I – would you let me – will I... see you again?’

And Jaskier hums noncommittally, gaze already turning to the bustling town he is about to dive into. ‘Give it a year,’ he says. ‘If you’re still interested, you’ll know where to find us.’

He doesn’t see Geralt’s minute flinch, nor Alfa duck her head, tail curled down between her hind legs.

The next few months in a whirlwind of classes and music, wine and good company. After so long away from the halls of academia, it takes Jaskier by surprise how easily he slots back in. There are old friends and colleagues and tutors and rivals to run into and avoid, as the case may be, and hundreds of fresh-faced youths milling about. Sweetheart enjoys it, quickly regaining her spark and exploring every nook and cranny she can find, and there are many of those in Oxenfurt. Valdo Marx shows up for a few weeks in the depths of winter, which is a pleasant distraction. Insults fly, songs are sung loudly, and lute strings are resoundingly strummed as the two bards face off with enough regularity that Jaskier is informed by his long-time friend Essi that bets have been placed on what they will challenge each other to next.

So, what with one thing and another, it’s not difficult for Jaskier to keep his thoughts free of a certain witcher.

Except that it is, horribly difficult, in fact, because whenever there’s a lull, a single second of respite from all the busyness, white fur and silver hair and gold eyes fill his mind’s eye.

For the first couple of months, Jaskier makes sure he’s shitfaced drunk before he retires to his rooms in the evenings or works on his songs and marking tests and writing papers until he’s too exhausted to hold a pencil anymore. It’s the only way he gets any sleep. Even after things start improving a bit, when he no longer feels held together by thin threads and Sweetheart is willing to leave his side for more than three minutes, there are the dreams. Some of them so warm and gentle that Jaskier wakes with tears drying on his cheeks, some of them full of angry words and unyielding shoulders that have him waking in a panic, struggling to breathe.

Essi is the only one Jaskier confides any of this in. She looks a decade or so older than him now, but the truth is they’re of a similar age and he trusts her as much as he trusts anyone. And while Jaskier certainly has no wish to screech his heartbreak and grief from the bell tower, not having _anybody_ to mope with has been horrendous. So they get drunk together every other week and Jaskier cries more than once and Essi pats his hand consolingly and pours him another drink.

All in all, it’s not a terrible year.

But Jaskier’s heart fucking _yearns_.

So, as soon as the first lick of spring is in the air, he and Sweetheart take their leave of Oxenfurt. He only signed on for one year as a guest lecturer, anyway, and Geralt will be coming down from Kaer Morhen now, on his way to Oxenfurt – if, that is, he’s really still interested. Jaskier tries to crush the hope and the attendant fear that worms its way under his skin. The witcher will do what the witcher does and maybe, _maybe_ Jaskier will see him and Alfa again.

Sweetheart trills softly by his ear and he reaches up to pet her on instinct, a faint smile on his face. Yes, he’s not the only who’s been missing the pair of wolves.

However, it’s vital to him that Geralt does not come and find them simply _waiting_ for him. Jaskier’s heart may ache in his chest at the thought of reuniting with his soul companion and soulmate, but he _refuses_ to be a helpless damsel, waiting for the witcher to storm in and take over Jaskier’s life again with his granite muscles. Something in him goes absolutely feral at the thought, demanding Geralt _look_ for him, _pursue_ him, _hunt him down._

Thus, the bard and the nightingale bid college farewell and set out on the road. It’s still bloody cold, of course, so they travel in small bursts, diving across the river into Temeria and stopping in at every town and city they come across so Jaskier can lift the people’s spirits with his music, while Sweetheart bounces and chirps around him, charming them all. Certainly, it’s a bit different to how he and Alfa used to do things, but it works just as well. Sliding back into the rhythm of life on the road is as easy as pulling on an old coat. Sure, the lack of decent insulation and good wine takes a little getting used to, but Jaskier’s been doing this for decades and as long as she’s fed and can burrow into his collar when it’s particularly cold, Sweetheart’s perfectly happy.

Word travels fast as the hawk flies and Jaskier’s always had an ear for gossip, so it doesn’t take him long to hear tales of the White Wolf and the true wolf that follows at his heels. Business for witchers always booms in the spring, as monsters of all sorts come out of their holes to take advantage of the season’s first travellers and newborn animals, but _apparently_ , Geralt’s been turning down at least as many jobs as he’s been accepting. Something about being in a hurry as he unswervingly follows the Pontar out of Kaedwen into Redania.

Summer is waiting in the wings when Geralt finally catches up with them. Jaskier and his nightingale are staying at a nobleman’s estate in Ellander, booked to perform for three nights (and paid very handsomely for it, too) in honour of said nobleman’s twin daughters' coming-of-age day.

The festivities remind Jaskier of exactly why he loves about performing in courts – his audience is large and as brightly dressed as himself, the wine flows thick and fast, there is dancing and laughter to be had on all sides. Sure, it’s tiring and he’ll have no voice left for a week after he’s finished here, and yes, nobility are far less restrained than his peers at Oxenfurt about asking after the conspicuously absent wolf he’s renowned for travelling with, but it’s _fine_. It’s fine because Jaskier is singing and playing and everyone’s attention is on him, delighted and enthusiastic, and he’s warmed right to the marrow of his bones. Together, he and Sweetheart _glow_ under the praise of the gathered gentry and Jaskier can’t think of a better performance he’s ever done.

It is fitting, then, that when he finishes his set for the second night – cheeks aching for beaming, skin prickling with sweat, chest heaving under his blue and silver silk doublet – and makes a flourishing bow before the thunderous applause of his enchanted audience, that Jaskier should turn and immediately see gold eyes and pale hair, gold eyes and white fur.

His heart slams against his ribs but aside from a slight faltering in his step, Jaskier gives no indication of his reaction, Sweetheart flitting down to cling to his shoulder. No indication that anyone but a witcher or a wolf might notice, anyway. He strides confidently from the hall, heading for the room he’s staying in, and his pulse stutters as he feels that heavy gaze following him through the torch-lit stone corridors.

Inside his room, Jaskier lovingly sets his lute down and scoops up Sweetheart to bring her before him. It’s hard to tell if the trembling is coming from her small body or his hands, but the result is the same, and her chirp is subdued, anxious.

Jaskier brushes a kiss over the top of her head. ‘It’ll be alright,’ he tells her, tells himself. ‘We’ll be alright. He never meant to be cruel to us.’

There’s a knock at the door and Jaskier’s shoulders tighten. He returns Sweetheart to her perch, sharp little claws digging through deftly woven silk threads, ignores the fact that he’s a bit of a dishevelled mess right now, and says clearly, ‘Come in.’

The door swings open on well-oiled hinges and suddenly there’s a great deal less air in the room, pushed out to make space for the ridiculously broad shoulders walking in, Alfa ghosting in after him. Jaskier has no idea how Geralt got in here tonight, but at least he’s dressed the part – instead of swords and black leather, the witcher is garbed in a midnight-blue jacket and a dove-grey shirt fit for a nobleman’s court.

_We match_ , Jaskier realises, mouth turning dry as sawdust between one heartbeat and the next. He busies himself with pouring and draining a glass of water from the decanter on his dressing table while Geralt shuts the door. When he turns back to his visitors, they are already watching him. Sweetheart’s feathers tickle the side of his neck as she tucks herself closer.

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt rumbles in greeting, his beautiful eyes wide and clear as they track the bard’s every movement. ‘Sweetheart.’

‘Geralt, Alfa,’ Jaskier returns, quiet but firm.

‘You look... well,’ Geralt says, awkward but earnest. ‘Your music is favoured here.’

Jaskier bites back a quip about how he’s finally found a willing audience.

‘As it should be.’

Wait, what?

‘Careful with the praise there or I might start to think you actually like it.’ The words are meant to be a joke, but they fall from Jaskier’s tongue with far too much sincerity to be anything other than baldly vulnerable and he winces.

Geralt’s mouth tightens and something that looks a lot like regret fills sunshine eyes, turning them cloudy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, his husky voice containing none of the strain it once did when he forced those words past his lips.

Jaskier inhales carefully through his nose. ‘What for?’

‘Every time I have belittled you or your music. I – _do_ like it. And you.’

Is it just Jaskier or is the room spinning like a top? When he saw that Geralt _had_ come for him, he expected another apology for the events on the mountain and not much else. _This,_ though? This is something completely different.

‘What – what happened to wanting blessed silence?’ Jaskier stammers breathlessly, seizing the edge of the vanity in a white-knuckled grip so he doesn’t fall over.

Alfa whines, her ears pricked towards the bard, but takes care to stay by Geralt, although her muscles visibly quiver with the desire to spring forward. Geralt rests a large hand in the fluffy scruff of her neck and grunts.

‘You have ruined me for silence, bard.’ Amusement sparks and fades, Geralt’s expression almost sombre. ‘It was... lonely. I – we missed you.’ His hand clenches in Alfa’s fur, the wolf agreeing with a whuff.

‘Oh.’ The exclamation is a near soundless whisper. Jaskier... doesn’t know what to think, what to say.

‘I’m sorry,’ Geralt repeats. ‘For hurting you and – sending you away.’ His lids flutter down and his voice gets quieter, softer. ‘I was scared. Witchers are not _meant_ to be scared. You have always stayed with me, no matter how hard I pushed.’ White lashes lift to reveal pools of scorching gold. ‘I was... terrified,’ he breathes, taking an abortive step closer.

Jaskier physically cannot speak, his jaw aching with how hard his teeth grind together in a losing battle to contain the swamping sea of emotion rising within him. Sweetheart shifts and he knows she is listening as raptly as him.

‘I did not expect to succeed,’ Geralt continues, his focus sharp and heavy and overwhelming. ‘You never – I did not think it would work. So, I was merciless.’ The final word cracks and he takes another tiny step forward, Alfa pressing against his thigh. ‘Merciless, to you who have only ever shown me kindness.’

‘You were,’ Jaskier agrees in a choked little voice. ‘You were a – a cruel bastard.’

Geralt bows his head, silvery hair fanning out over his shoulders and glowing softly among the shadows cast by the flickering lamps. ‘I was,’ he admits. ‘No penance of mine can mend that, I know, but –’ eyes flicking up, gold burning into blue – ‘but I find myself selfishly asking your forgiveness nonetheless.’

‘And if I refuse?’ Jaskier asks, testing the waters, testing the witcher’s resolve. ‘If I say that I wish to never see you again?’

Alfa whimpers and Geralt tenses. But he only says, ‘Then I will go and never cross your path again.’

Jaskier relaxes with a shuddering sigh. He steps closer to the chastened witcher and reaches out to cup the side of his stubbled jaw, amber eyes widening in wary surprise. ‘Do you promise not to turn your anger on me again like that? I understand being scared and being angry, Geralt, and I don’t hold any of that against you, but you can’t – gods, you can’t just take it out on me because you don’t know how to deal with it.’ Jaskier leans in for emphasis. _‘Talk_ to me about it or find some other way of letting me know that you feel like shit and I need to back off, okay?’

Geralt’s eyes are like coins, wide and round and shining. Jaskier sort of wants to cry at how utterly stunned the witcher looks. Did he _truly_ think Jaskier would spit on such a rare show of vulnerability from him?

‘Well?’ he prompts gently.

‘I promise,’ Geralt replies immediately. ‘Jaskier, I’m sorry, so sorry, I promise I won’t –’

‘Shh, shh,’ Jaskier hushes, pressing two fingers to chapped lips. ‘I forgive you, Geralt. Calm down, I’m not going anywhere.’

The witcher is trembling under his touch and Jaskier feels Sweetheart leave her place on his shoulder, giving him room to lift both hands to Geralt’s face. Solid, warm arms wrap slowly around Jaskier’s waist, Geralt leaning into the touch. The difference between their height is negligible, but Geralt is clearly doing his best to curl his big body around Jaskier’s.

‘I’m here,’ Jaskier murmurs, stroking his thumbs across pale cheekbones. ‘It’s been a long year for me, too.’

Geralt shivers, knocking his forehead against the bard’s. In a voice as deep as a mountain’s roots, he rumbles, ‘When I saw you lying by the tree – I was ready to feed myself to the dragon. You were so still and _quiet_ and – and then you smelled afraid.’ His arms tighten around Jaskier.

‘And what do I smell of now?’ Jaskier whispers, tangling one hand in fine silvery hair.

Geralt’s eyes close once more and he turns his head, skimming his nose over Jaskier’s temple, still damp with sweat, and inhaling deeply. ‘Sweet brandy,’ he purrs, ‘heady flowers, and sharp rosin.’ He hums, the sound one of profound satisfaction.

Jaskier makes a strangled sort of squeak, heat flushing his cheeks at the intimate description. He tries to lean back, but Geralt doesn’t let him get far, an inch or two between their noses. Jaskier swallows, licks his lips. Sees eyes of sun-warmed gold flick down and up.

‘Now, Geralt,’ he begins, far too breathy, but apparently Geralt isn’t done yet.

‘You smell like my bard. My songbird. _My_ Jaskier.’

That’s an invitation if Jaskier’s ever heard one, so he hisses, _‘Good,’_ and then he listens to the howling hunger inside him and firmly brings their mouths together.

The kiss is eager and urgent and passionate, and Geralt barely waits a second before licking over Jaskier’s lips, his tongue delving into the bard’s mouth. Jaskier groans for sheer _wanting_ and Geralt purrs again, hands wrapping around the backs of his thighs and lifting Jaskier without effort. Sloppy and enthusiastic, Jaskier drags his tongue along Geralt’s, nips the witcher’s lower lip and rolls the pliant flesh between his teeth, heat singing in his blood when Geralt growls and guides them none too gently down to the bed.

They break apart for a moment and Jaskier gasps for breath. Geralt’s hair hangs down like a silver curtain, the witcher’s body pressed warm and heavy into his, and gold eyes shine so bright.

‘You’re wearing too many clothes, bard,’ Geralt complains teasingly.

Jaskier bares his teeth, feral and wanting. ‘So _do_ something about it, wolf.’

Geralt grins, fierce and beautiful, and Jaskier is breathless for an entirely different reason. Then Geralt kisses him again and he’s still grinning against Jaskier’s mouth as he impatiently tears his outraged bard’s clothes apart.

Much later, when they’re going to sleep, Jaskier glances across the room and smiles in content at what he sees. Alfa, curled up on the rug in front of the empty fireplace, and Sweetheart, nestled into the white fur of the wolf’s tail by her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triss' soul companion is an eastern indigo snake called cob, do what you will with this information.
> 
> i bet it's real easy to see where i gave in and finally looked up a damn map huh o<-<


End file.
